


Vox Populi

by siriuslywritten



Series: To Square The Circle [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Politics, British Politics, Come At Me, Harry Potter and politics, I'm basically combining my two loves, Multi, Politics AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-04-07 06:53:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19079779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siriuslywritten/pseuds/siriuslywritten
Summary: Sirius Black comes from a family of politicians. Politics is in his blood. So, it comes as no surprise that he's decided to run for office. What is a surprise is that he's running for the opposing party, on a very different platform, and he's decided to appoint James Potter as his campaign manager.But, they need a speechwriter. What happens when James Potter manages to get a certain Remus Lupin to join the team?





	1. The Consummate Politician

_Fuck_.

James tore his eyes away from the television screen, and growled. He'd been watching the greasy face of the incumbent on the local news, smearing their campaign again with tight, well-thought comments. Sure, James thought, they were still ahead in the polls, but the numbers were getting tighter every day. He just couldn't take chances with that.

James surveyed the absolute bombsite that was his desk, eyes searching for his address book, where maybe - _just maybe_ \- there might be a number he could call and fix this. He shoved aside campaign leaflets, briefing memos, the odd wrapper from his favourite chocolate bar, looking for the book. Failing to find it, he slammed his hand down in irritation.

Hearing the sound of movement, James looked up. Standing in the doorway was his best friend, his brother, and now - _unfortunately_ , James sometimes said - his boss.

"Something wrong, Jem?" Sirius asked, leaning against the doorframe, his hand wrapped round a cup of coffee. He looked every inch the consummate politician - he'd cut his hair, and his crisp blue shirt hid most of his tattoos. Sleeves rolled up to the elbows, trousers tailored, leather shoes scuffed just enough to look like this wasn't his first campaign rodeo. If looks were the only thing that mattered, Sirius would be elected in a heartbeat.

"We need a speechwriter," James said irritably. "Every statement the opposition is putting out is absolutely slamming us. I can't manage this campaign and write your content, Sirius, I'm sorry."

"Ok," Sirius said soothingly. He walked across the room to James' desk, and perched on the corner of it, pushing aside a stack of newspapers. "So, we hire a speechwriter."

"No?" intoned James, his voice dripping with sarcasm. " _Say it ain't so!_ "

"Alright, alright," Sirius replied, flipping him the middle finger. "What's the hassle?"

"All the good ones are gone."

"What do you mean, all the good ones are gone?"

"I mean," James replied seriously, "all the good ones are gone. Kingsley Shacklebolt's loyal to Dumbledore, he won't come and work for us. I guess I could try someone like Hestia Jones, but I'm pretty certain she's writing for Lockhart, and he pays better than we can."

"Surely Lily could help you out with a number, then?" asked Sirius.

James fixed him with a death stare. Lily Evans - perfect, exquisite Lily Evans - was the party's national spokeswoman. She was bright and vivacious, rising unconscionably quickly through the party ranks. She'd also been the subject of James' affections since they'd all met at university, and made no attempts to hide the fact that she utterly despised him.

"She'll skin me alive, Sirius, if I tell her that we're three months out from the election, and I need a new speechwriter."

"Wait!" Sirius squeezed his eyes shut, clearly trying to remember something, and snapped his fingers. "What was that kid's name?"

"You're going to have to give me a bit more than that, mate."

"Oh, you know who I mean. Tall, quiet, sort of auburn hair. Campaigned with us last year when we were trying to get McGonagall reelected."

"Oh!" Comprehension dawned on James' face. "Lupin, Lupin - Remus Lupin, I think?"

"Yeah, him! Didn't he write that great speech McGonagall gave at the hustings?"

"Huh," James muttered, leaning back in his chair and worrying his bottom lip with the top of his pen. "You know, that's not a bad idea, Padfoot. He's not her full-time speechwriter, I know that; she's got, er, _whatsherface_ , Dorcas Meadowes."

"And she is phenomenal," Sirius added, gesturing with his coffee cup. "McGonagall doesn't need another writer, she won't mind if we pinch him."

"Padfoot, old pal," James smiled, reaching for his phone, "you might have just saved me a hell of a lot of hassle."

"Don't count your chickens before they're hatched, Prongs," Sirius grinned lazily back. He stood up, his back clicking as he stretched. "Anyway, I'll leave you to it. I only came into hide because Marlene wants me to do a Facebook live."

The pair of them looked through the window that separated James' office from the rest of the campaign headquarters. Their social media director, Marlene McKinnon, was standing at her desk. She caught Sirius' eye and made a face, tapping an imaginary watch on her wrist.

"Good luck," James laughed as Sirius headed sheepishly toward the door, "and for God's sake, don't say anything stupid, will you?"

"Roger that, Prongs," Sirius replied, and sloped out of the room.


	2. The Force to be Reckoned With

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James meets Remus for a drink, hoping to get him to join the team. 
> 
> (also idk what's happened to my Soundcloud, so bear with me on that front!)

"Thanks for meeting me, Remus, I appreciate it." 

The pub was busy, and the two of them were pushed into a corner table. Returning from the bar with drinks in hand, James attempted to fold his long limbs under the table as he sat down on a slightly uneven stool. He slid a pint of bitter across the table, taking a large gulp from his own beer. He licked the foam off of his top lip, and looked at Remus expectantly. 

"No problem," Remus smiled back at him, but it was the kind of smile that didn't really reach his eyes. He clinked his glass against James’. “Cheers.” 

“Cheers,” James echoed. The two of them sat in silence for a moment - perhaps uncomfortably, James wasn’t sure. He surveyed his drinking partner, taking him in. 

James didn’t know what he’d expected, if he was honest, but it wasn’t _this_. He vaguely remembered Remus from the previous year’s campaign, but only as a tall, quiet presence at the back of a meeting room. If he was honest, he’d have been hard-pressed to describe Remus’ face or pick him out from a line-up.

Because he didn’t remember Remus being quite so _hot_. High cheekbones, a sharp angular jaw, a funny little silvery scar that ran along one cheek to the top of his lip, perceptible only when he titled his head just-so and the patina caught the light. His clear green eyes glittered in the dim pub lighting, and he worried his bottom lip with his teeth; his nose looked like it had been broken and reset, the slight crookedness giving some kind of earthy charm to his face. There was something about him - all those long limbs and slow movements that was transfixing. James always said he walked up to the line of bisexuality, but never crossed it, but even he was tempted by Remus. He swallowed, already imagining the conversation Sirius and he were going to have to have about _appropriate workplace relationships_ , if Remus joined the team. 

“So, er,” Remus said awkwardly, aware of James’ intense gaze, “you said you had something to talk to me about?” 

“Right!” James replied, and put his beer down forcefully, sloshing some of it onto his trousers. He grimaced, wiping at it with his sleeve. “Look, you’re working on McGonagall’s campaign, yeah?” 

“Eh,” shrugged Remus, “kind of? She’s got Dorcas Meadowes as her speechwriter, I’m just sort of along for the ride.” 

“Then I’ll get straight to it,” said James. “I want you to come and work for me.” 

“You’re not a candidate,” Remus frowned, and brought his pint to his lips. 

“No,” James inclined his head, “but Sirius is, and he needs a speechwriter like, yesterday.” 

Remus snorted into his bitter, and emerged, coughing. 

"You want me to write for Sirius Black?" His face was pale, the expression some mix of amusement and disbelief. 

“Yes,” James asserted firmly, “I do.”

Remus wiped his mouth. _If his eyebrows got any higher_ , James thought, _they’d be in his hairline._

"I mean, he's got a bit of a reputation…” Remus said slowly. 

"If you're talking about his family, ignore everything you've read in the papers, he's-"

"No," chuckled Remus drily, "I didn't mean his family - although _God knows_ they’ve got a reputation. I mean, he's got a bit of a reputation in the party.”

“Go on then,” James grinned, “you tell me about Sirius Black.” 

“Well,” Remus faltered, flushing red. “He’s a bit of a wild card, no? Like, son of what is essentially political royalty, cliched rebellion against his parents by joining the opposition, but will probably cross the floor and sit with his dad in about a decade - because they all do, eventually.” 

James laughed - a full-throated, hearty laugh. 

“Oh, you sweet summer child,” he muttered. “You’ve got him all wrong.” 

“Have I?” Remus asked hotly. “And anyway, even if I have, isn’t that telling? Like, how the hell are the public supposed to know _the real Sirius Black_ if members of his own party don’t have the measure of him?” 

James shrugged.

“We’ve been leading in the polls for close to six months.” He took a sip of his beer. “Old Abraxas Malfoy doesn’t seem to be doing so well with the public these days - possibly because his thick-as-horse-shit son is running his campaign, of course.” 

Remus considered that for a moment, playing with the corner of a beer mat with his long, elegant fingers. _Writer’s hands,_ James thought - _God, the man was a cliche._

"You seem more like the natural candidate, you know,” Remus said finally, inclining his head towards James. “New money, socially-mobile parents, family with a rags-to-riches story. He's old money, landed gentry. Doesn't exactly translate as relatable to the average voter." 

James laughed, shaking his head. 

"Nah, I’d be a shit candidate and an ever worse MP. Sirius has got an edge that I haven't, and it's the kind of edge you need in politics."

“An edge,” Remus repeated, the scepticism practically dripping from every syllable. 

"Look," James sighed, resting his beer back down on the table. He leant back in his chair and appraised Remus for a second. "He's been my best mate since we were at school together. And yes, he's got a bit of a reputation, but he's also smart and vivacious and incredibly dedicated. I know, _I know_ , it’s easy to write him off as a dickhead trust fund kid but, well, he’s not.”  
  
“So what is he, then?” Remus asked. 

“He’s…” James huffed out a breath, staring into the middle distance as he sought the words he wanted. How to describe Sirius Black? He was his best friend, his brother, his constant companion since the age of eleven - his parents’ second son. Sirius was a political powerhouse, a passionate tornado raging through an establishment, upturning convention at every turn, unfazed by obstacles. James hummed as he thought - how did you sum that up? 

“He’s a force to be reckoned with.” 

“Ok,” Remus said, slowly nodding his head. He paused, and then reached into his pocket, pulling out a battered leather-bound notebook and pen. He flipped it open, and leant forward on the table, pushing the sleeves of his sweater up to expose surprisingly-delicate forearms dappled with freckles. He looked up at James, green meeting grey. “So, tell me about him.” 


	3. The New Guy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remus arrives at campaign HQ for his first day.

James looked into the mirror as he knotted his tie into his trademark half-Windsor. He sighed. He and Sirius had gone out for a quiet one the night before — their Sunday night ritual of a trip to their local, The Hog’s Head, for a pint and the pub quiz. Only last night, they’d run into Sirius’ ex, Caradoc Dearborn, and Sirius had ended up storming out of the pub after some choice words were exchanged. When they got home, he’d shut himself away in his room with a bottle of that fire whisky he imported from Canada. 

Fortunately, James had heard him moving about that morning — the shower had turned on and then off again, the kettle had sprung to life, there’d been the sound of Sirius humming some Depeche Mode song under his breath. Sirius’ response to emotions was often to find solace in the bottom of a bottle, which meant James was in no doubt, of course, that he was probably profanely hungover. 

Which was a _shame_ , James thought, as he reached for his favourite pair of cufflinks. He slipped the little gold lions into his cuffs. Remus started work today, and James had hoped, _hoped_ , that Sirius might be on his best behaviour. It was one thing to be that firecracker with people he knew, like James and Marlene, who could counter his flame with their own; it was quite another to be quite so _Sirius_ in front of someone you barely knew. 

James and Remus had met again a couple of times after their first awkward rendezvous in the pub. He’d prepared a briefing pack, painstakingly going over it with Remus in a coffee shop near London Bridge. The auburn man had been quiet, nodding thoughtfully as James went over the details of their strategy — policy suggestions, opposition research, background. James wasn’t worried about the quality of the writing — Remus had, naturally, been learning from the best. Everyone knew that getting a gig shadowing Dorcas Meadowes was a surefire way to jump rungs on the ladder. She was acerbic in her writing, quick-witted and finely tuned to the tone and audience she was writing for. 

Still, James mused as he reached for his aftershave, Remus had looked tired when they last met, worn down. That didn’t bode well for working under Sirius Black. To be sure, Sirius _looked_ like he was relaxed, _acted_ like he was laidback, but he pushed the team harder than anyone else. James had to tell him to chill out sometimes, to remember to keep in mind that the official campaign hadn’t started yet, that they were laying the trenches, not going over the top. Even James knew when to stop — and he was a self-confessed workaholic. 

James strolled out of his room, and along the corridor into the kitchen of the flat the two of the shared. It was at the top of a somewhat rickety industrial building, where Camberwell met Peckham; metal window frames and brickwork and a temperamental boiler that James was convinced had been put in in 1902. They’d lived together since they graduated from university; James had interned for a lawyer for a while, thought about doing a conversion course, then got a boring job in finance that he’d dropped immediately when Sirius asked him to be chief of staff. Sirius had eschewed the easy route, the namedrop walk into a cushy career. Instead, he’d rolled up his sleeves and got stuck into a local charity, working in fundraising. It had been what had spurred him on to become a candidate. 

Sirius was sitting at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, cup of steaming black coffee to his right and a plate of toast to his left, newspaper spread before him. He looked up as James walked into the room. 

“Coffee’s done,” Sirius said through a mouthful of toast, gesturing at the French press on the side. 

“How’re you feeling?” James asked with a grin as he poured a cup. 

“Rough, I won’t lie,” chuckled Sirius, taking a grateful gulp of coffee.

“Finish that bottle, did you?” 

James settled himself at the breakfast bar, as Sirius winced. 

“Yup, and then some,” he muttered, pulling a face. 

“Dickhead,” James chuckled.

“New guy starts today, right?” 

“Yeah, so be good, Sirius,” warned James, surveying him over the rim of his coffee cup. 

“I’m _always_ good, Jam Pot,” Sirius smirked. “Gonna record a couple videos with Marls for Instagram this morning, and then meet with the new guy.”

“The new guy has a name, by the way — Remus.” 

“Aye, aye,” Sirius waved a hand in acknowledgement, turning back to the newspaper. 

Moments passed, and a subtle shift in the atmosphere of the room made James glance up. 

“What’s up, bud?” James asked, looking at how Sirius’ forehead had creased into deep furrows. 

“My dad,” Sirius said gruffly. He spun the newspaper round and pointed to a small column on one side. James leant forward and read the headline: _MP’s New Charitable Foundation_.

“Another one?” James asked, sitting straight again.

“Another tax avoidance scheme, yep,” sighed Sirius. He hopped down from his stool and gestured toward the door with his head. “C’mon, let’s get going.”

“Don’t want to be late for the new guy, do we?” James grinned. 

“ _God forbid_.” 

* * *

Two hours later, as the hand on Remus’ watch ticked to nine o’clock exactly, he saw James Potter crossing the stained carpet of the reception he was sitting in. It had taken Remus twenty minutes to be sure that he’d got the right building; it had seemed too rundown to be the campaign offices for the son of one of the richest men in the country. The fake pot plants in the window were covered with dust, and the inhabitants of the other office spaces seemed to all be slightly-dodgy mortgage lenders.

“Remus, hi.” James extended a hand, shaking the taller man’s and ushering him away from reception. 

“Hey,” he replied, lifting the strap of his satchel and following. 

“You find us ok?” 

“I thought I’d got the wrong place at first.” 

“What, did you expect us to have offices like McGonagall?” James asked with a grin, punching the button for the lift hard. The doors slid open, and he gestured Remus inside. 

“I guess I thought Sirius Black of all people would have somewhere a bit, er, more auspicious,” Remus replied with a smile he hoped James would interpret as gently joking. 

“Let me know when you find us a more auspicious budget,” chuckled James, shoving his hands into his pockets. 

The short ride up to the top floor of the building gave Remus an opportunity to study him. James was tall, with dark, unruly hair and a pair of tortoiseshell glasses. He filled up the space he inhabited, and Remus couldn’t help but wonder again why it was Sirius, not James, who was running to be an MP. 

They arrived at the top floor, and immediately stepped out into what was clearly campaign HQ. Remus scanned the office, taking it in. It was rough-and-ready, but already alive with activity. Large posters adorned the back wall, and the bullpen in the middle of the room held ten-or-so desks, most of them stacked with boxes of flyers and leaflets. Remus had been impressed with what he’d seen of the campaign — he’d gone through the briefing pack with James, and then done a deep dive into the social media. The branding was impeccable — they knew exactly what they wanted their potential constituents to see, that was for sure. Sirius never appeared in a suit or tie; he was usually in a simple shirt, looking directly at the camera. There were candid photos, thoughtful videos of Sirius ruminating on policy ideas, or responding to government directives. But Remus didn’t feel like he _knew_ the man. And the questions that arose were not just over _who_ Sirius Black was, but _what_. 

As Remus and James crossed the small main office, a pretty blonde with her curly hair tied in a bun atop her head approached them. Remus noted she was wearing no shoes. Before either he or James could speak, she launched into a torrent of words. 

“Jimbo, we’re done with the videos. He’s been absolutely _on fire_ today — really took on board the suggestions from the focus group. I think we should go ahead with doing—“

James turned to Remus and gave him a rueful smile, interrupting her. 

“Remus, this is Marlene, she’s our social media director.”

“Sorry,” Marlene laughed and shaking her head, and extended a hand. “Hi, Remus!” 

“Great to meet you,” replied Remus, shaking her hand. He warmed to her immediately. 

“And the man of the hour,” James continued, gesturing to a man who had appeared at his side, “this is Sirius.”

Sirius was _not_ what Remus had expected. He knew him from the photographs, of course, but photos didn’t really do him justice. He looked like the poster child for a silver-spoon rebellion story. Hair the colour of black treacle, oozing into his eyes until he lifted a hand to brush back the curls — Remus saw the flash of gold from a signet ring, and fought to stop himself from rolling his eyes. The sleeves of a navy blue shirt were rolled up, exposing tanned, strong forearms. Remus could see tattoos across them — minimalist lines that he couldn’t decipher from a distance. There was a grace about the way that he moved that transfixed him, made Remus want to go still and slack-jawed, as though he was the axis and the rest of them were in orbit around him.

“Remus,” Sirius said smoothly, shaking his hand, “great to meet you.” 

“You too,” Remus replied, as James ushered them towards his office. “Marlene said you guys had just finished filming some videos?”

“Yeah!” Sirius said with a grin, snaking an arm around Marlene’s shoulder and giving it a squeeze. “I’m shit at social media — if it were up to me, I think most of the Instagram account would just be videos of me and Jem playing pool or eating a large number of hot dogs.” 

Marlene snorted, and rolled her eyes. 

“He’s not joking,” she directed at Remus. “When we were at university, I got Sirius to cover me on socials for an event we were running, and he just gave Twitter a stream of consciousness about something-or-other. Cute when you’re eighteen, less so when you’re twenty-eight.”

The four of them settled around a low coffee table in James’ office, where a pot of coffee and a plate of biscuits had been laid out.

“You guys all met at uni, then?” asked Remus, taking a seat in a slightly sagging armchair. 

“Nah,” Sirius shook his head. “We all go way back. James and I were at school together.” 

“James’ parents are my godparents,” Marlene explained further, “so I’ve had these two useless creatures in my life for longer than I’d care to admit.” 

“Like one big, _happy_ family,” Sirius said in a mock sing-song voice.

“Fuck off, Sirius,” Marlene snorted, and helped herself to coffee. 

“Sorry if it’s shit, by the way,” James said as he handed Remus a mug and gestured toward the milk and sugar. “Sirius makes coffee like tar.” 

“Fucking rude,” Sirius replied, blowing on the top of his black coffee. He snatched up the sugar bowl and dumped what looked like half of it into his cup. 

“It is an absolute miracle that you aren’t the size of a house, boo,” teased Marlene, and offered Remus a biscuit. He lifted a hand in polite refusal. He was surprised that it was Sirius who’d made the coffee. In all the time he’d worked with Minerva McGonagall, he didn’t think he’d ever seen her go near the kitchen, let alone ask anyone if they’d like a cup of tea. In fact, the thought of letting McGonagall make him a drink positively sent shivers down Remus’ spine. 

“ _Anyway_ , enough of you two,” James said, rolling his eyes. “Welcome to the mad house, Remus. I imagine McGonagall ran a tight ship but—“ he shrugged— “we’ve not exactly got the budget McGonagall has. It’s casual here, you know? Get started on ripping the shit out of Sirius whenever  you want, we're hoping to have his ego in check by the election."

“Also, in the nicest way possible,” added Sirius, as he lazily proffered his middle finger at James, “McGonagall is in a safe seat and we’re not. You don’t really have the liberty to put on airs-and-graces when you’re the underdog.” 

Remus resisted the urge to snort. He didn’t think Sirius Black had ever been the underdog in his life. 

“Speaking of underdogs,” Marlene said suddenly, snapping her fingers as she remembered something, “Pete called me earlier. We should probably set up a meeting with him and Remus this week, too.” 

James nodded, scribbling something down on a piece of paper he had picked off his still-foul desk. 

“Pete?” Remus asked. 

“Peter Pettigrew,” James explained. “He’s a bit of a jack-of-all-trades. Really involved in the local branch here, runs a lot of our street stalls, that kind of thing.” 

“Super sweet guy,” Marlene added.

“Excellent,” Remus smiled. “My plan is to take this week to really acquaint myself with your ideas and your vision for going forward, so I’m sure he’d be a great guy to have a chat with.” He was beginning to relax now. He was in his element when he was talking politics, talking shop; he was _good_ at this. He felt the most confident he’d been since stepping into the office and coming up against this strange, knotted group of people who seemed to know each other so intimately. “Everything James gave me in the briefs was great, so it’s more about getting a _feel_ for how you want me to be writing, Sirius. I’d also like to do a bit of work with you, Marlene, if that’s alright? We can really work on getting the tone across socials and speeches to mirror each other.” 

“Great,” beamed Marlene, “and I can give you all the dirt on Sirius that I’ve been gathering since he was eleven.” 

“Marls!” Sirius cried, and Remus had to laugh. He liked Marlene; he liked her lack of self-consciousness, her willingness to welcome Remus immediately into the teasing of these two men who seemed to exude confidence out of their very pores. 

“So, I guess you’ll be wanting to know all about Sirius, all about his passions and his quirks?” James smiled, and Remus grinned back. Taking Marlene’s cue, he decided to push some buttons. 

“I could do without the press fluff. How about something I can work with?”

“Like what?” Sirius raised an eyebrow, and Remus felt a shiver down his spine. Something about that gesture told him this man was deliciously dangerous. 

“Inner city constituency, lots of issues with poverty. What makes _you_ stand out enough that you can appeal to people who have been voting for the same guy for twenty years?” 

Sirius sighed, leaning forward on his elbows. Remus thought he saw a flash of irritation across his face for a moment - and took great pleasure in the idea that he’d knocked back the confidence of this posh kid. Then, Sirius began to speak. 

“Abraxas Malfoy has, for the past twenty years, held this seat based on two things. The first is that he’s wealthy, and money is everything. You talk about inner city poverty - and don’t get me wrong, there’s plenty of it. But three streets from here? The other side of the common? You’re looking at houses owned by millionaires. They’re the people who put Malfoy in parliament.”

“Aren’t you wealthy?” Remus asked mildly. Out the corner of his eye, he saw Marlene and James exchange a look, and frowned slightly - _what did that mean?_

“I am,” Sirius said slowly, “but you didn’t let me finish. The other thing that Abraxas Malfoy has relied upon is low voter turnout. We have some of the poorest turnout in the country. We need to get young people out, we need to get first time voters out, we need to get people who used to vote but became disillusioned when the posh twat with the walking cane kept getting into office. We want to tell them their voices matter.” 

“And do they matter? Their voices, I mean.”

Remus could have cut the tension, torn strips from it as it stretched in the air between them, an elastic discomfort. He swallowed. 

“Yes,” Sirius replied quietly, “they do. If I’d wanted an easy walk into parliament, Remus, I’d have joined my father’s party. And if you’re asking that, at least have the decency to be honest.”

“Remus, I think a lot of this was in the briefing pack,” James began, somewhat uncomfortably. “What we’re hoping is—“

“You’re right,” interrupted Remus, catching Sirius’ eye, “I should have asked you honestly. I’m just trying to get a feel for… the vision my writing needs to embody, you know?” 

“Yeah, I know,” Sirius nodded slowly, giving Remus a small smile. “And it’s important, so I’m glad you’re doing it —“

For some reason, that annoyed Remus; he hadn’t been looking for Sirius’ praise. Quite the opposite, in fact: he wanted to pick apart this perfect creature in front of him. From everything he’d heard about Sirius, he was supposed to be _effervescent._ The man in front of him seemed caution personified. _This_ was the firebrand, the tornado on track to wipe out an establishment built over twenty years? _This_ man, with his long, indulgent vowels, his clipped consonants, the crisp stop at the end of every sentence? _This_ man, with his pressed shirt and perfect tailoring and shoes that Remus was convinced probably cost more than his monthly rent? He seemed so… _contained_. Remus wanted to pull at his seams, so that the facade fell loose to the floor, wanted to expose him. 

“But, what you see is what you get,” Sirius continued, sitting back on the sofa and spreading his arms wide in a gesture of openness.

And _that_ rankled Remus more than anything, because _no_ , he thought. _No, it’s not_. 


	4. The Complicated Dynamic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remus puts his foot in it with Sirius, as the pressure of the campaign heats up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting regularly? I don't know her.

They’d settled into an uncomfortable normal; though Remus wasn’t going to lie, it wasn’t easy. He felt exposed in this new environment, standing in the middle of a vast desert. After a month, it was clear to Remus that he’d walked into not just a campaign that was already established, but a complicated dynamic, richly braided relationships. Marlene and Sirius danced around one another, sparks out of flame, the same kind of vibrancy. Remus seriously wondered at times if they were fucking. They shared a kind of chemistry that clung to everything else in the room like woodsmoke. It was casual glances here-or-there, the odd brushing of hands against each other, secret smiles that could mean just an inside joke, or something different.

Actually, to be more specific, he wondered if _all_ of them were fucking. Sirius had such a casually sexual air to him, that much was obvious, but there was something about James, too. He’d be entirely unsurprised if he walked into James’ office one day and found them together. They bounced off each other in such a way that Remus couldn’t describe, but one word from James, and Sirius reined himself in. James was easy and friendly, but he was like embers, still bright. He commanded the respect of a room, took it because it was his for the taking. Remus wouldn’t have batted an eyelid if he’d found Marlene and Sirius willing to bend to his _every_ whim. 

He shook his head, as though he had water in his ears. _Jesus Christ, he needed to get laid_. He couldn’t be thinking about his new colleagues screwing one another. It was a Monday morning, only a week to go before Sirius’ first major hustings, and Remus was still picking at the speech. He had left it on Sirius' desk the night before, completely convinced that it was frankly a pile of shit, but he also didn't know where to go with it. Sirius was so closed off, so private, that it made it intensely difficult to find that thread of ingenuity to weave something together. He settled himself at his desk, and sighed. 

Remus had been given the office next to James, across the tiny corridor from Sirius. Every morning, Remus would walk into the campaign office and see Sirius and James already at their desks. They seemed to have _endless_ energy for the work. They were first into the office in the morning and last out at night. Everyone on the campaign seemed to light up when they spoke about the two men, gushing about how friendly or funny or kind they were. 

Sure, James was easy to get on with. He asked about Remus’ weekends and which football team he supported and joked about the news with him. He was an affable kind of person, and Remus warmed to that, the same way he warmed to Marlene as they poured over social media strategy and joked about whatever shitty Netflix programme they were both into. Remus even got on well with Peter, the _jack-of-all-trades_ who had come into the office during the first week with a pack of beer and made Remus laugh until he cried. 

He couldn’t get a handle on Sirius, though. The time they spent alone together was… stilted at best. Both of them seemed to inhabit their most cautious selves when they were in the room together and Remus knew it was impacting his work. The speeches and talking points he was writing weren’t his best and Sirius was incredibly attuned to detail, picking apart the work with an incredibly critical eye. Frankly, half the time, Remus thought Sirius looked bored out of his mind to be spending any time with him at all. 

"This isn't me." 

The outline of a speech appeared on Remus' desk, and he looked up. Sirius was standing in front of him, a small crease in between his brows. 

"Not you." Remus repeated the words. He picked up the sheet of paper to see barely-legible chicken scratch smattering the page. 

"It's not…" Sirius trailed off and began to pace, clearly searching for a word. "Sharp. It's not sharp. I want something with a little more edge, you know?" 

"Funny, because when James asked me to come write for you, he said you already had an edge." 

Remus regretted saying it. He should have just taken the speech and agreed to revise it, to give it a cursory look and a few changes here and there. He knew he shouldn't have needled his new boss. Yet, there was something about Sirius walking into the room to tell him his speech wasn't sharp enough that put his hackles up. He was a damn good writer, wasn't he? And yet here was this well-heeled and wealthy trust fund kid walking in to tell him how to do his job. 

"Yeah, and one I'd like to translate to paper, if possible," Sirius said as his frown deepened. He barely glanced at Remus as he said it.“I need you to _understand_ my political vision, you know?” Sirius was animated, eyes shooting round Remus’ office as he gesticulated with his hands. “That’s the important thing to get across, that vision, and I’m worried it’s not being understood. Do you know what I mean?” 

Remus resisted the urge to snort. Here it was again, this idea that Sirius was _innovative_ in his politics. Sure, Remus liked the policy ideas Sirius came up with, and had been genuinely impressed by the community work the campaign had been engaged in, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was just something Sirius was _playing_ at, something he could do until he got bored with it and moved onto the next adventure. It was that feeling that frothed up and out of his mouth when he spoke next, before he could stop it. 

"Well, if no one understands you, why not write your speeches yourself?” 

"I can't write them myself," Sirius said, stopping his pacing and looking at the other man, a curious look of distaste on his face. 

"Can't write them? Or won't write them?" Remus asked, irritated. 

The air seemed to escape the room, a vacuum. 

"I'm seriously dyslexic," Sirius growled, eyes flashing. "The whole reading-a-speech thing is hard enough, it'd take me years to write them as well. Sure, I _can_ do it, just like I can do a lot of things, but it’d be great if my speechwriter did the job he’s paid to do.” 

Well, now Remus felt like a dick. 

“I didn’t, I mean-“ Remus spluttered.  


“But of course, it’s just because I’m lazy, right?” Sirius’ lip curled. “Couldn’t possibly be that I’m consuming so much material for this campaign, and sometimes when I look at a sheet of paper, everything on it looks like fucking _ancient runes_ and maybe I could do with someone else picking up the slack on the actual writing-the-speeches front?” 

“Well, I- I just meant-“ Remus spluttered. The way the other man was standing over the desk was downright terrifying, stock-still and poised. Remus supposed he hadn't really noticed it before, because Sirius had such a fluid, languid way of moving and holding himself. He rarely stood up during a conversation, preferring to perch on a desk or lounge against a doorframe, which always seemed rather at odds with his animated personality. But he had the tautness of a coiled spring, now that Remus considered it. It was a sort of brutishness, like a kind of potential violence woven into the sinews of his body. 

“Don’t worry,” murmured Sirius, scanning Remus’ face, “I think you made it very clear what you meant.” 

He pivoted and walked over to the door. Hand on the handle, he glanced back over his shoulder with a withering look that made Remus want to shrivel up and vanish. 

"Do your job, Remus," Sirius said quietly, and pulled open the door, "and write me my fucking speech." 

 

* * *

"I quit." 

James’ head snapped up. 

"Excuse me?" 

Remus was standing in front of him, arms awkwardly crossed against his chest. He’d been mulling over the conversation with Sirius for 24 hours, up all night worrying about the fact that he’d essentially given his _very influential and career impacting boss_ the verbal equivalent of the middle finger. 

"I'm quitting, I've written my resignation letter, and-"

" _Woah, woah,_ Remus," James said, holding up his hands and pushing his chair back, standing up. He pointed to the seat across the desk, and Remus sat in it. He watched as James crossed the room and shut the door, before rounding on him. 

"What do you mean, you quit? You've been here a month, Remus," James exclaimed. 

"Look," Remus sighed, "I fucked up with Sirius yesterday. I really don't think I should be the one writing his speeches."

James scoffed, a look of incredulity on his face. 

"How can you have fucked up with Sirius? The man's got skin thicker than rhino hide." 

Remus swallowed and shut his eyes for a moment, an embarrassed flush creeping up his neck and onto his cheeks. 

“I made a pretty shitty comment about the fact he’s too lazy to write his own speeches because I didn’t know about… y’know, about him being dyslexic.” 

James let out a bark of a laugh - _a laugh that reminded Remus far too much of Sirius_ \- and settled himself back down behind his desk. He eyed Remus with a mild look of amusement. 

“So let him be mad? That’s hardly the worst thing someone’s ever said to Sirius.” 

“That’s not-“ Remus cut himself off with an irritated sigh. “That’s not why I think I should resign. There’s all this… tension, between Sirius and I, and I’m worried that it’ll impact the campaign, because as much as I don’t think I understand him, and frankly, I think he’s a bit of a posh twat, I still want to see Abraxas Malfoy knocked out of this seat so that the people here actually have someone representing them who gives a shit.” Remus took in a big gulp of breath, realising it probably wasn’t the best idea to call someone a _posh twat_ in front of their oldest friend. 

“Are you always this neurotic?” James asked curiously. Bizarrely, he didn’t look angry. 

“What?” 

“You were a dick, Sirius is mad about it. You buy him a drink at the pub, and it all blows over. I fail to see why this is a resigning offence.”

Remus sighed, and stared over at the painting on the wall above James’ desk.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “Maybe I’m looking for an excuse to quit, and this is it.” 

“That bad, huh?” asked James. He said it in such a mild tone of voice that it took Remus by surprise. 

“You-you don’t seem surprised by this,” frowned Remus. 

"Look, this is why you and I aren't the candidate, Remus," James replied lightly, and settled himself back in his chair. “Sirius gets under your skin like this. It’s the reason he’s _good_ at politics. He makes you irritated, or he makes you inspired, or he makes you-“ James gestured at Remus, waving his hand- “neurotic about something that’s completely inconsequential. He makes you _feel_ things. It’s just who he is. Frankly, I’d be worried if he didn’t have this effect on you.” 

Remus pursed his lips. 

"I don't know, I'd feel better if he just got angry with me and yelled or something? I feel guilty as hell."

A shadow crossed James' face.

"No, you don't," he said quietly. "When Sirius is angry, he goes in for the kill. This is water under the bridge, I promise." 

“But that’s the problem!” exclaimed Remus, learning forward and putting a hand on the desk in front of him. “I don’t know things like that. I don't feel like I _know_ Sirius enough to write his speeches. Maybe it would be better if someone else took over,” he finished lamely, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth and looking at James. 

"Remus," James said with an air of finality, "you're not resigning. I'll talk to Sirius, smooth it over. Now for God's sake, go and do some work." 

* * *

"Drink that, would you, and stop being such a miserable git?” 

"I'm not being a miserable git!” 

"Padfoot." 

James and Sirius were ensconced in a booth in the corner of their favourite pub, the Leaky Cauldron, just around the corner from the office. It was originally just The Cauldron, named after the road on which it was built, but the decrepit building had been falling down for so long that it earned the _Leaky_ epithet. It was rough-and-ready and one of Sirius and James’ favourite places in the whole of London. 

The two men sipped their drinks in silence. Finally, James set his beer back down on the creased paper mat on the table in front of him and licked the foam from his upper lip. He spoke casually, fiddling with the edge of the beer mat and looking at Sirius through his eyelashes. 

“So, Remus threatened to quit today.” 

“Oh fucking hell,” Sirius growled, looking up at the ceiling in annoyance. “He’s such a fucking drama queen.”

“Drama queen?” James’ eyebrows shot up. “Mate, he doesn’t _say_ anything. Ever.” 

“Yeah, that’s what I mean, he’s so…” Sirius waved his hand around, looking for the right word for Remus. “He’s so _brooding_. Gets on my tits, the fact that he doesn’t just say what he means.” 

James thought for a moment before speaking, glancing at Sirius out the corner of his eye. 

“He’s hot, right?”

“I mean, _yeah_ , but he also annoys the shit out of me,” said Sirius. 

“There was me thinking you were into that.” James took a sip of his beer. 

Sirius barked out a laugh. 

“Remember when Marlene and I dated for the hottest of hot seconds? We broke up because we realised that, under all the banter, not-really-being-able-to-stand-each-other isn’t the same as sexual tension. I learnt my lessons, trust me.” 

James shrugged. 

“I wouldn’t know,” he continued.

“No, you wouldn’t, because your dating life is atrocious.” 

“Unrequited love does that, Pads,” James grinned sheepishly. 

“Fucking stupidity is what does it,” murmured Sirius as he took another sip of beer. 

“Also,” James said frowning, “what the hell do you mean that you and Marlene can’t actually stand each other?” 

“Oh, I love her,” Sirius said. “Like, deeply and ardently and would-lay-my-life-on-the-line for that infuriatingly excellent woman. But not romantically. Great in the sack, would drive me _bananas_ if we were together properly. She’d say the same.” 

“Well, _thank God_ ,” laughed James, shaking his head, “because I’ve got the image of the two of you fucking seared into my brain after I walked in on you that time. I’m so glad there’s no potential sequel to that horror show.” 

“That was probably the hottest sex of your life, Jem, and you weren’t even having it.” 

James snorted into his drink and Sirius slapped him on the back, the pair of the laughing as James emerged from the beer. 

“God forbid you’re right,” he chuckled bitterly. 

“Still want Miss Evans?” Sirius asked, and the mockery was gone from his voice. The two of them had met Lily Evans at university, and she now worked as a speechwriter for the leader of the party. She was vivacious and acerbic, incredibly talented at what she did, and James was utterly smitten. 

“Yeah,” James sighed, grimacing, “and she’s still not interested. I hate myself for it, and I think I hate her a little bit too.” 

Sirius let out a huffing breath, puffing his cheeks out.

“That’s a healthy basis for a relationship.” 

“Fuck off,” laughed James, knocking him with his elbow, “like you’d know anything about healthy relationships.” 

“Guess that makes two of us, eh?” Sirius grinned and drained his drink. “C’mon, I’ll get us another round.” 

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to do a political AU and a podfic for aaaaaages, so I decided to just jump in and do it. Shorter chapters because of the whole reading them aloud thing.


End file.
